Tales From the House of Le Fou
by Clopin K. Trouillefou
Summary: Mostly just a collection of stories about Clopin and his family since I can never seem to finish a story. They do all tie in to each other, so be sure to read them all. Rated for language and some violence
1. Long Live the King

People usually assumed Clopin Trouillefou was an only child, the eldest child, the eldest son, or the only son of his family, a reasonable assumption considering his place as Gypsy King. But the truth was very different: he was the youngest of three sons, number four out of five children. His family situation was very different from what many assumed it to be, his arrogance to some would indicate an only child, his energetic, mischievous nature was more typical of a middle child. He was the younger of twin sons, born breech six hours after his brother, a difficult birth for the slim waif that was his mother, hence the reason his father had always told him he was trouble from the moment of his birth. The six hour difference meant he and his twin had two different birthdays, the older twin being born at 6pm on the 30th of October, Clopin being born on the very stroke of midnight on the 31st, an ill omen for as superstitious a man as Adriel Trouillefou. Adriel himself was not full Romani, but few were aware of it and none knew how pure his blood was or was not. His mother had been a beautiful woman with royal blue eyes and red-brown hair, Gypsy by nature if not by blood. There was always some question as to her lineage, no one knew if she was half-Gypsy or a foundling taken in by her tribe or really what her story was. All anyone knew for sure was that she came from a tribe local to Orleans, her maiden name was Vaillant, and that she married the leader of the Parisian tribe, a man most knew only as Trouillefou. Together they'd had five children: Magdalena, Adriel, Gaia, Bexhet (pronounced Beh-jet), and Rene.

Adriel had been a boy of eighteen when his father died at the hands of the hangman and had taken his father's place as Gypsy King, presiding over the hideaway his father had found and dubbed the Court of Miracles. His mother had always hated Paris and so returned to Orleans and her maiden name after her husband's death, her younger sons going with her. Magdalena had settled among a tribe in Spain where she acted as herbalist and healer while Gaia took up the same position in the Court. Their younger brother was an odd one, always venturing between Paris and Orleans, known by two different names. In Paris, he was known by his full name Moses Bexhet Corin Trouillefou, but in Orleans, he was Bexhet Vaillant. Only those related to him had the privilege of addressing him by Moses, a name chosen by his mother because he'd been born among the reeds at the river's edge on a hot summer day when she'd decided to take quick dip to cool off. His preferred name was Bexhet, but to Clopin he was "Nonc," a moniker that came about by the boy's difficulty in saying "mon oncle." He was dark-skinned with black hair and eyes much like his older brother's, both sisters inherited their father's dark Gypsy features except Gaia's eyes were sky blue, her hair thick and waving. The youngest, Rene, inherited his mother's red-brown hair and fair skin, but shared his brothers' black eyes, Magdalena sharing most of her father's dark features save that her eyes were brown rather than black.

Giselle was a slim, beautiful woman with crystal blue eyes, her waving black hair kept loose, the oldest daughter of a large family of her own that was said to have descended from Egyptian and Hebrew roots, though they were themselves mostly Romani. Her younger sister, Yocheved, had converted to Judaism when she wed a Jewish man, and was devout to her faith. She and her three children were the only members of Giselle's family that Clopin and his siblings had ever met for reasons their mother had never divulged. Giselle had been pregnant when Adriel met her, the father being a fellow Rom who'd been slain by so-called Gypsy-hunters, but so deeply had the Gypsy King fallen for her that he readily married her, vowing to raise the child as his own. The child was born a year before Adriel's first, a son she named Cassim, a son Adriel looked after as his own but did not see as a legitimate heir since the boy was not his blood. Adriel's and Giselle's first child was Maurice Rumen, first in line to take his father's place as king, followed four years later by Lynette Aimee, their first daughter and mother hen of her younger siblings. Five years later, Giselle gave birth to their twin sons, Darien Kalderasha and Clopin Kandala, who most take for identical twins but were likely fraternal twins. Five years after the twins, their younger daughter and last child was Megara Carolina, a headstrong, independent girl with a passion for everything Greek.

Now, most people always had difficulty telling the twin boys apart, but there were clear differences to those sharp enough to spot them: Darien's skin was a shade darker than Clopin's and where Clopin's eye were black, Darien's were brown. The best way to differentiate was much simpler: Darien's earring was worn in his right ear and Clopin's in his left, though later on Darien did pierce his left as well. Clopin picked up his father's accent, while Darien did not, though their voices sounded exactly alike and Darien could expertly mimic the accent. The two were naturally thick as thieves in every sense of the term, often finishing each other's sentences and always seemed to know what each other was thinking. Darien, in the early days of his youth, had usually been able to read Clopin's thoughts, until Clopin learned to block his mind, not to keep his brother out, but to block out things he realized he could see or sense but others did not. In their early childhood, they always caught the same cold, but while Darien only ever had a sniffle and cough, Clopin's usually turned into a fever that left him bedridden. The healers always told Adriel and Giselle that in all likelihood, Clopin wouldn't survive childhood, being the weaker, smaller of the twins. However, as they grew older, Clopin grew stronger and outgrew his childhood maladies, eventually coming to be the same height and weight as Darien. Despite that, Adriel still put little stock into his more troublesome son, assuming that the illnesses that had plagued him would've left his heart too weak to ever withstand the strain of being King.

Clopin, though bearing a strong resemblance to him, had never been particularly close to his father and later on even felt some lingering resentment. Adriel being the tribal leader and a provider for his family usually had a lot on his mind and precious little time to spend with his family. What little time he could get was usually spent grooming Maurice and Darien to take his place, often leaving Clopin to his own devices, which is probably why he got into so much trouble. It often seemed the only time Adriel went out of his way to make time for his youngest son was when word of Clopin's exploits reached his ears and he saw fit to beat some sense into him. For the day and age, Adriel was far from abusive, but that didn't mean Clopin was spared corporal punishment, far from it in fact with the trouble he stirred up. The first few times his father raised his hand to him, Clopin had cried which only seemed to frustrate Adriel further.

"A king does not cry, Clopin!" he snapped, "Tears are a sign of weakness! And a king must be anything but. Your people must never see such weakness or they will never respect you."

"Umm, Papa," Clopin returned, "then why do you always say you weep for me?"

One exasperated sigh and backhand later, Adriel stalked off, rubbing his temples and complaining of a headache while Clopin just stood there rubbing his sore cheek. Unfortunately, Clopin never did quite learn to think before running his mouth off.

Adriel died when Clopin was in his early twenties, his two brothers were away, enjoying the freedom of the open road, leaving Clopin to step up and take charge of the Court. Word of their father's execution was sent out to his siblings and naturally they all returned to Paris to bid their last farewell before turning to the affairs of their people. A king must make many sacrifices for his people, not least of all being his own desires and freedom. It was not a sacrifice many people could make, so when both of his older brothers stepped down from their rightful place, Clopin neither blamed nor envied them. He loved Paris and any time he'd opted to leave, it was never for more than a few weeks and rarely ever beyond France herself, but Maurice and Darien preferred traveling far and wide, they couldn't bring themselves to give up their freedom to be tied down in so dangerous a city as Paris. So Clopin did and rarely did he ever ask himself what his father would do, he'd watched his father run the Court his entire life, had learned by observing what to do and what not to do. So it was that the scrawny, sickly little son that Adriel deemed unworthy of taking his place came to earn his place as King of the Gypsies.


	2. Defiance

Clopin was twelve years old when he was captured by slave traders one night as he was meandering through the streets of Paris, not looking forward to going home. He'd been telling stories and doing some acrobatic tricks to entertain the crowd when some guards had seen him and began chasing him. But rather than simply running from them, Clopin, having a good head start, had turned and started taunting them which resulted in a very-near capture. His older brother Maurice had tripped one of them, leaving the others to collide with him and scooped up his little brother, darting in and out of alleys to lose their pursuers. Adriel had been alerted by one of the scouts he had situated throughout the city and when they reached where he'd been performing, he was already fuming, eyes darting from his eldest son to his younger.

"How many times-?" he began, but stopped knowing it was futile, "Clopin! Damnation, what am I going to do with you, boy? When you get home, you are in for a world of pain!"

"That doesn't sound fun," Clopin muttered.

"Not everything in life can be fun, Clopin," his father went on, Clopin rolling his eyes at the same lecture he'd heard countless times before, "Especially when you keep stirring up trouble. Now, for the last time, STOP TAUNTING THE GUARDS!"

"Yes, Pop," he gave his father a mock salute before sauntering off to set up elsewhere.

Except, Clopin never got home. As he rounded a corner, a hand clapped over his mouth and he was pulled into an alley where he was thrown to the ground, a boot pressed to his back to keep him still. He struggled, but against a group of three or four grown men, it was useless as they tied a gag over his mouth and bound him tighter than anything he could get out of without dislocating something. Even then he still fought, until something hard and heavy hit the back of his head and his world went black.

He came to in a large tent, chains clanking as he struggled to sit up, hands flying up to his neck to find an iron collar there, the chain hanging from it latched securely to the iron bars behind him. Looking at his hands, he saw chains there, too, as well as around his ankles. He glanced around, finding himself in a cage with a large group of other Gypsies, some children like him, others adults, most still either sleeping or unconscious.

"You musta really pissed them off, boy," a gruff voice came from the corner opposite of him.

Glancing in that direction, he saw an older adult Rom, grimy and sweaty, staring at him, tossing his head to the side and spitting when the boy's eyes met his.

"Never seen 'em use that many chains," he went on, "Not smart."

"What would you expect me to do?" he asked, "Let them catch me?"

"Smarten up from here on out," the man snapped, "Eat what they give you, sleep when they let you, don't be asking questions, and don't be flapping your gums at them. Obey and they'll leave you be, back-talk and they'll skin you alive. Obey, they'll sell you to a decent master who might let you free someday, in the mean time you live in some comfort, get fed regular meals. You make trouble, though, freedom'll be nothing but a distant dream, a faded memory, and pain your best friend."

"What do you mean 'master'?" Clopin quirked a curving black brow, "I answer to no one-."

"Quit your blabbering, the two of you!" a voice snapped as a club was banged against the bars, "Sick and tired of hearing your devil-speak."

"And cut the Romani, boy," the Gypsy man smirked at Clopin, still speaking their tongue, despite the guard's warning.

"You wanna eat today?" the guard prodded him.

"Yessir, just educating the young-un."

Clopin said nothing more, pegging the Rom across from him as a coward whose Gypsy pride had long been beaten out of him. Clopin soon found himself in a camp of sorts, surrounded by other Gypsies and even some who weren't, but clearly came from other bands of outcasts. Many had no idea where they were or what was to become of them, some were like the Rom who'd warned him, veterans of whatever this was who'd learned to just shut up and obey. But as Adriel knew, Clopin didn't know when to shut up and he certainly wasn't one to obey, he was a fighter even at such a young age with an indomitable spirit that drove his father mad.

In the days that followed, Clopin came to learn a new meaning of pain, the beatings he took from his father were nothing compared to what he experienced at the hands of his captors. He learned quickly enough they were slave-traders, men who found a way to make heathens like him useful and get some gold out of the deal. The old Rom had been right: those who obeyed were left alone, those that didn't were beaten into submission. Any that made trouble or attempted to fight back found themselves locked up and starved until they learned their lesson and begged for mercy. None were killed, none had yet passed away, that would only lose them potential gold, but that didn't mean there weren't sick and/or injured among them. Clopin's fiery spirit was doing him no good here, he was always in chains, and found himself locked up and starved a number of times. Almost three weeks he'd been here, his skin sickly and pale, his lean form even leaner from starvation, barely an inch of him was uninjured and he was burning up with a fever. Such was his weakened state, that he just silently obeyed and ate what little he was given, though little of that would stay down, having no strength left to fight. He wondered only dimly where they were going as they were all herded back into the caged wagon he'd first found himself in. He found out soon enough as the day crept towards afternoon and they drew within sight of the familiar walls of Paris and found himself wondering what fresh, new Hell they had in store.

Tarps were thrown over the cages so no passersby could see what the wagons carried and those held within couldn't see where they were going. They came to a stop and led out into what Clopin recognized as the marketplace in Paris's streets where they were forced to strip and stand to allow any number of rich merchants and nobles to carefully examine each and every one of them. After what seemed an eternity, they were redressed and marched onto a stage to be auctioned off, Clopin deaf to the numbers being rattled off even when it came his turn. Adriel stood in the crowd, making sure his cloak covered the clothing and earring that marked him as a Gypsy, keeping his hood low enough to hide most of his features lest Frollo catch sight of him. This wasn't the first time these slavers had come to town to sell some of his kind into slavery, they came around perhaps once or twice a year. Just weeks ago, he'd been informed a few of them had been seen in Paris, supposedly just to restock provisions, but possibly to try to nab any of Adriel's own tribe. The timing had been bothering him, a knot forming in his stomach, for his scouts had reported their presence around the same time Clopin had gone missing. He hadn't slept in days, praying with growing desperation that his spies would locate his little son in Frollo's dungeons, hoping that the boy had finally pushed his luck too far and that soon his location would be known and they could set about helping him escape. Unfortunately, luck was not on his side as the knot in his stomach rose to his throat, his heart dropping to his feet, eyes widening when he saw his own flesh and blood half-dragged and half-carried onto the stage.

Tears pricked at his eyes, he took a trembling breath to control his emotion and keep his tears at bay, any relief he should have felt at having finally found his son subdued by the uncertainty of how to save him. He paid no more attention to the numbers being shouted than his son, his pain increasing as he saw how pale and thin Clopin seemed. His mind whirred with any number of desperate escape plots, trying to settle on the most sensible one until one voice rang out over all others, a hush falling over the crowd.

"100 pieces of silver!" a formidable, fearfully familiar voice shouted.

Though they already knew full well who it was, Adriel in the crowd and Clopin on the stage looked as one to the imposing figure astride his powerful black horse: Judge Claude Frollo. No one dared outbid the Minister of Justice, so he urged his brute of a horse through the crowd, exchanging the purse he carried for the key to Clopin's chains.

"_Salaud_!" a familiar voice caught his attention and he turned to look.

Adriel strode through the crowd, drawing back his hood, deep black eyes filled with hate as he gazed up at the persecutor of his people, a triumphant smirk drawing across Frollo's thin lips.

"Ah, dear Adriel," he said as though he were greeting an old friend, "I'd wondered where you were hiding yourself. Indeed, here I was wondering if you were even going to bother searching for this little runt of yours."

"Unhand my son, you bastard!" the Gypsy King roared.

"And you wonder where your boy gets the temper," the Minister remarked, "I'm afraid not, Trouillefou. You see, I've paid for it fair and square."

"_It_ is a_ he_," Adriel growled, fists clenched and shaking in barely controlled rage, "And _he_ is my son, not a piece of livestock to be bartered and sold!"

"Well, _he _belongs to me now, dear King, so I'm afraid you're quite out of luck. Oh, don't look at me like that, it's unbecoming. You needn't worry yourself, Adriel, I'll take good care of the boy."

"Isn't the only good Gypsy a dead Gypsy? What do you want with one alive and breathing?"

"He's old enough to be educated and young enough to be cured of your heathen ways. I'm not so heartless as to execute an innocent child for crimes he may yet be saved from committing. I'm only trying to save him from eternal damnation."

Adriel glanced from Frollo to Clopin as the boy was pulled onto the Minister's horse, his gaze softening, a tear even streaming down his cheek, expecting his son, his troublesome son who never failed to come back with some form of sass, to say something, to fight. For once, however, Clopin was silent and for the first time, the boy had no words.

"Clopin!" Adriel called as Frollo rode off, "Don't just give up! Of all times to shoot your mouth off, this is it! Clopin, _mon fils_!"

A makeshift rope composed of sheets tied together and a slim figure carefully and expertly slid down as far as the sheets reached before dropping to a ledge. He'd been an acrobat since he could walk and he'd always been good at climbing things, so scaling the walls of the Palace of Justice, though daunting, was simple enough. It took several minutes, but at long last he was able to drop safely to the ground and took off running as fast as he could. He was weak and still burning with fever, but the extent of his weakness he'd feigned, saving his energy for this very moment, though admittedly he'd had no idea he'd be sold to Frollo, but it didn't matter. At that moment, Frollo was entering the small room he'd let the boy sleep in, intent on making sure the fever hadn't claimed him, eyes widening when he saw the window open. Rushing over, he saw the rope of sheets the wretched boy had made (clearly the real reason he'd complained of being so cold), and looked down to the street where he could see the slim form of that damned Gypsy child running. He rushed from the room, shouting orders for his horse to be readied, and mounting it once he reached the dark streets, urging it into a gallop after the boy. Clopin ignored the burning of his lungs and his protesting body, focusing solely on running as fast as he could toward Notre Dame. He was quite sure he had until the morning before Frollo realized he was missing, but unfortunately the furious hoof beats behind him begged to differ.

"_Merde_," he muttered.

No longer concerned with his body's protests since the hoof beats were driving him onward now, Clopin ran as fast as he could, darting in and out of alleys in a desperate attempt to lose Frollo to no avail. Frollo stayed close behind him even as he frantically rushed across to the empty square up Notre Dame's steps, constantly reminding himself not to look back. He ran up the steps, the doors to sanctuary only a few feet away, then made the fatal mistake of looking behind him to see how close Frollo was to find the minister baring down on him. He turned and rushed to the doors, but Frollo was close enough to reach down and grabbed his wrist before throwing him to the ground and dismounting. Momentarily dazed by his intimate meeting with the ground, he was too slow to get up before Frollo grabbed his arm in a vice grip and reached for the whip he'd wound around his belt. He drew it back as Clopin struggled, turning his face away, crying out as the lash caught him in the face, leaving a deep cut extending from over his right brow to his cheek. Frollo released his grip on the boy's arm, Clopin falling back with a hand over his eye, blood falling to the stone steps through his fingers. He gazed back defiantly as Frollo advanced on him, half-expecting to hear thunder to accompany the storm brewing in his eyes.

"Frollo!" a voice came from the doors to the church, the Minister stopping to look at the Archdeacon.

Clopin grasped the momentary distraction and scrambled to his feet, dodging the long, thin hand that reached for him as he darted to the Archdeacon who pushed the boy behind him.

"Sanctuary," Clopin said, glaring at Frollo with his good eye.

"Come, child," the Archdeacon said, turning and putting a gentle hand to his back.

The kindly old man led Clopin away to a private room where he tended to the wound on his right eye, washing away the blood, shocked at the depth of the wound the whip had inflicted.

"Can you see?" he asked him.

Clopin forced himself to open the eye despite the pain, but found he could see very little and shook his head, letting the eye fall shut. In time, his sight returned and the wound healed, forever scarring him, the bright red scar standing out against his tan flesh. He took to carefully applying stage paint, expertly mixed to flawlessly match his skin tone, to hide it. The years passed, Frollo occasionally managing to recapture him, which led to countless beatings, countless trips to the dungeons where he'd be stripped from the waist up and whipped till he bled. He learned to give no voice to the agony he was left in, to allow himself rest between the beating and the return to the small chambers Frollo kept him in. He always managed to escape, sometimes in a few hours, sometimes within a few days, but inevitably he would make it home, no beating ever enough to beat the fire out of his spirit. Frollo's hold over him irked him to no end, calling another man 'master' a tremendous blow to his pride, but it only made him all the more determined to fight against him. Even when Frollo fell to his doom fifteen years later, even then Clopin was not free, he was just another possession to be passed onto Frollo's successor.

As much trouble as he was, he was worth more to Frollo alive than dead, allowing him some hold over his father while Adriel still lived and being the key to the Gypsies' secrets when Clopin rose to become King of the Gypsies. Besides, Frollo aimed to punish the stubborn Gypsy and refused to kill him for one reason:

"Death… is a release, not a punishment."


	3. Eye of the Beholder

It was a bitterly cold winter's night, the first week of January, the middle of the night, a soft snow falling over the Parisian streets and blanketing the cobblestones in white, making this dangerous city seem like some magical, beautiful wonderland. A young child nearing seven years shivered, very cold, but excited and eager to have been able to act as look-out. His father was the leader of Paris's large tribe and had agreed to let the boy keep an eye out for a small group of fellow Romani that was expected on this wintry night. The dead of night was an ideal time for a small group to slip in via the Seine, but a lookout was still needed to help show them safely to the Court of Miracles and to alert older Gypsies stationed nearby in case of trouble. This time of night at this time of year, there were relatively few guards around, but there were still a few and they were usually quite eager to apprehend any Gypsy that came their way. The gentle lapping of the water only heightened the boy's excitement for any of those sounds could be the first sign of the boat bringing the travelers closer to safety. They all needed to move quickly and quietly, the beauty of the white snow belied the danger that this city hid, this was still Paris and Paris with its present Minister was a dangerous place.

Black eyes darted from one side of the river to the other, expecting danger to be lurking around every corner, arms tightening around the shoulders of the woman beside him. The bundle in her arms squirmed, uttering a cry, the arms around her tightening reflexively in a near panic, her husband's eyes darting to her and the child.

"Shut it up, will you?" he chided, not meaning to sound as harsh as he had.

"We'll be spotted!" one of their companions warned.

"Hush little one," she cooed to the infant who fell silent.

She shook her head, mouthing the name Corin, hoping it was only his state of near-panic that had him frustrated and not the necessity of protecting the tiny bundle in her arms. Tatoya leaned into him, relaxing slightly since safety was drawing closer as they neared the bank they planned to dock at. Their child was only weeks old, had yet to be named, and her husband had been ill-tempered ever since as he wavered between a father's unconditional love for his first-born and revulsion at the child's appearance. The small skiff finally docked, the group disembarking, Tatoya taking the hand her beloved offered as the oarsman turned to them.

"Four gilders for safe passage into Paris," their malformed guide held out his hand, leaning against his punt.

Four gilders, it was all they had left to their name, she hoped her brother-in-law would make sure to give them some food when they arrived. All of a sudden, an arrow whirred by them, imbedding itself in the punt, the four glancing at it in panic even as a group of soldiers emerged from the shadows and surrounded them. Tatoya was immediately pushed protectively behind the lean form of her husband, his first instinct to protect her, evidence that no matter his feelings toward their child, he still loved her.

The boy watched from the shadows, eyes widening in panic, not daring to give any signal either to the group or any of the other lookouts lest they all be caught. The snort of a horse drew the attention of the group as they turned to look behind them, their expressions falling from panic to despair as the sinister figure approached on his black horse. It was the newly-appointed Minister of Justice himself, his piercing gaze narrowed at the Gypsies before him.

"Judge Claude Frollo," Tatoya heard her husband mutter in horror.

His eyes locked on Frollo, he pulled her close to embrace her, not seeing the soldier that reached for him and pulled him roughly from her side, a gasp escaping her lips as he and the others were slapped in chains. He dragged his feet, struggling against the guard pulling him, unwilling to leave his wife's side even as his two companions were hauled away. One of the other soldiers caught sight of the bundle she held close, reaching for it, but grabbing only her wrist as she tried to protect it.

"You there!" he demanded, "What are you hiding?"

"Stolen goods, no doubt," Frollo said, hardly concerned with what she was concealing, "Take them from her."

The Gypsy boy that silently watched looked from her to the three men being hauled away, his eyes locking with that of the woman's husband, who mouthed the boy's name: Clopin. The child then looked back to the soldiers and the woman to see that Tatoya had run, managing to escape the grasp of the soldiers, with Frollo on his great brute of a horse charging after her. Clopin, casting one last glance at her husband, followed her, keeping to the alleys and shadows to stay hidden, hoping that he could catch her attention and lead her away from danger. No such luck, she knew precisely where she was going as she raced past various shops, closed for the night, leapt over a gate blocking an alley, her destination just across the square: Notre Dame.

She raced across the empty streets and up the steps, pounding frantically at the heavy wooden doors.

"Sanctuary!" she cried, "Please, give us sanctuary!"

But she was alerted to the sound of heavy hoof beats, turning to see Frollo's beast barreling down on her, and she turned and ran, too little too late. Frollo leaned down, grabbing the bundle clutched in her arms and kicking her away when she fought to pull her precious cargo from his hands. Clopin watched as she fell, her head striking the hard stone steps, then lay completely still even as the bundle Frollo now clutched began to squirm and cry.

"A baby?" the shocked Minister held it out, pulling the blankets from the infant's face and gasping in horror as he saw the awful deformities, "A monster!"

He glanced around desperately in search of a way to dispose of the little beast, Clopin emerging from the shadows where he hid and pulling a small knife from his belt, only for a large hand to stop him. He looked up to see the Archdeacon, awakened by the frantic pounding, emerge from the cathedral even as Frollo spotted the well across the courtyard and hold the wriggling bundle over it.

"Stop!" he cried, a stern look on his face as Frollo looked up at him.

"This is an unholy demon!" Frollo protested, "I'm sending it back to Hell where it belongs!"

The Archdeacon's stern expression fell as he saw the still woman laying on the Notre Dame's very steps and solemnly approached and tenderly cradling her in his arms, leaving no doubt in his mind that she was dead. A brief, warning glance sent the young boy that still watched scurrying back to the shadows to listen as the Archdeacon first begged for the child's life, then sternly pointed out the blood spilled on the church's very steps, and the danger Frollo's very soul now faced. Panicked, Frollo gazed at the more grotesque sculptures around him, their stone eyes seeming to silently judge and threaten him with eternal damnation.

"What must I do?" he asked as the Archdeacon picked up the child's dead mother.

"Care for the child," the man replied, turning to him, "And raise it as your own."

"What? And be saddled with this misshapen…" the Minister was incredulous at the idea, but stopped as an idea began to form, "Very well, but let him live with you in your church."

The Archdeacon's brows lowered in confusion, "Live here? Where?"

"Anywhere…" Frollo pondered over the use of the boy as his gaze lifted skyward and fell upon the twin bell towers, "The bell tower perhaps and who knows? Our Lord works in mysterious ways."

Frollo had charged his men with making sure the three Gypsy men were brought to the Palace of Justice and locked up to await questioning and (likely) execution as he pursued the woman. The woman's husband, having fought to stay with her, brought up the rear and seemed resigned to his fate or taking some comfort in the assumption that he would see her soon enough. At least, that's what the soldier escorting him assumed, unaware of the plan forming in his captive's mind even when the man stumbled over a loose cobblestone. Already irked at bringing up the rear, the soldier was further irritated by the slower pace now set by the Gypsy he was all but dragging in chains, his lips in a scowl as the heathen limped along behind him. He roughly pulled his prisoner after him, ignoring the oaths of pain from the Gypsy as they entered the dungeons, looking forward to being able to shove the bastard in a cell and forget him.

"My ankle!" the Gypsy swore, coming to a stop, "Damn you, bastard, have you no mercy?"

"None to waste of heathens like you!" the guard snapped.

"A moment!" he growled as he reached for him, "That's all I ask unless you'd rather drag my dead weight behind you?"

He ignored the soldier's curses as he grudgingly allowed his prisoner a moment to rest his "injured" ankle, waiting until the other soldiers were safely out of sight before ramming his shoulder against the guard, slamming him into the wall. Before he could recover from the momentary daze, the Gypsy's chains were tight around his neck, cutting off the soldier's air.

"Give me the keys," the Gypsy growled in his ear, "Give them to me, goddamn you!"

Struggling to breathe, the soldier handed over the keys, prepared to retaliate once the heathen bastard released his hold to unlock the shackles, not prepared when the Gypsy crossed his wrists and pulled the chains tight until the guard passed out. He quickly unlocked his restraints, not expecting any of the other soldiers to backtrack for their missing comrade.

"Hey!" one of them shouted as the chains fell.

"Run, Bexhet!" one of the other Gypsies, his old friend Rumen, shouted as he and the oarsman were shoved into a cell.

Bexhet turned and ran, granted a headstart by the precious seconds it took for the guards to lock up their other prisoners lest they too escape. One escaped Gypsy was bad enough, but if they lost all three of them and it was their heads Frollo would have instead. A few more guards were alerted by the shouts of their comrades as their prisoner escaped, leaving Bexhet possibly boxed in unless he acted fast. He skidded to a halt, seeing two or three more soldiers approaching, glancing behind to see the original guards ganging on him, and reached into a hidden pocket in his red cloak. As the two groups seemed about to collide with the Gypsy, he threw his hand down, the concealed smoke powder exploding into a flash of smoke as it hit the ground. Both groups pulled back, hands held in front of them, coughing as the smoke blinded them while their former captive slid by them all without any of them being aware until the smoke cleared and he was gone. Knowing the trick would only buy so much time before the guards again gave chase, Bexhet kept running, not once slowing his pace, his only thoughts being on reaching his wife and son. He knew exactly where she would have run, it had been their Plan B if they were caught to separate and head for Notre Dame cathedral to claim sanctuary. He slowed as he came to the silent square, his eyes catching sight of the small footprints of his wife and the giant hoof prints following them.

Panic rose to his throat as Bexhet raced to the steps of Notre Dame, sliding to a halt as a flash of crimson against the ivory snow caught his eyes, and he slowly approached the steps, his heart in his throat. He fell to his knees, tears welling in his eyes as came upon the blood staining the fresh powder where she'd fallen, silently praying the worst was only his imagination.

"Nonc?" a timid voice came from behind him.

He looked up to see his nephew, his godson, approaching him with a stricken look on a face that reminded him of his older brother at that age, features still round with youth but already hinting at the angular features of the boy's fathers.

"_Non_," Bexhet muttered, getting to his feet, "_N'est-ce pas._"

He numbly walked to the wooden doors, his hand grasping the door handle and pulling open the heavy door and stumbling into the cathedral with Clopin close behind him. The Archdeacon glanced up from where he knelt before a statue of the Virgin Mary, a sickening feeling sweeping through him as he realized who the Gypsy approaching must be.

"It's not her," the man muttered, "Archdeacon, tell me it's not her!"

Without waiting for an answer, he looked to ground before the Blessed Virgin, choking back a sob as his worst fears were realized, falling to his knees by the still form of his wife.

"Tatoya," he moaned, grasping both her dainty hands in one gloved hand, reaching up to caress her cheek with the other, "No…"

No amount of words could soothe such pain, so without a word, the Archdeacon gently placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and uttered a quiet prayer in Latin even as Bexhet let out a string of words the holy man could not understand. Clopin, however, recognized it as Romani prayers for the deceased minced with curses as his uncle tenderly removed certain pieces of his wife's apparel: her bracelets and earrings, the string of gold disks she wore about her head. He untied the kerchief she wore over her hood as he pushed it back to run his fingers through her ebony hair, kissing her forehead before touching his brow to hers in a last farewell.

"Uncle Moses," Clopin muttered, "We have to go. The coast is clear for now, but we have to get moving before the guards get any sense."

"_Bien sur_," Bexhet muttered, rising to his feet and tucking Tatoya's kerchief inside his doublet, "I have matters to discuss with your father."

Cautiously and silently, the pair navigated their way through the darkened streets to the old cemetery across the Seine and safely inside the tomb that hid the entrance to the Gypsies' secret hideaway. Adriel stood conferring with a few others when the pair entered, remaining unaware of their arrival since he stood with his back to them, his long black hair tied back in its usual ponytail. He glanced toward them with a start as one of the men he stood talking to pointed them out and the Gypsy King turned to greet his younger brother with a smile.

"Moses!" he exclaimed, arms open in what he meant to be a welcoming embrace, "It's been so long-"

Bexhet said nothing as he quickly strode toward his older sibling who was caught entirely off-guard by the punch that caught him square in the nose, leaving those who watched gasping in shock.

"Oh," Maurice, the oldest of Adriel's children muttered, as his father was knocked to the ground, "That won't end well."

"Whoa!" Darien, Clopin's twin, exclaimed, "That-"

"Was awesome," Clopin finished.

"Moses Bexhet Corin Trouillefou," Adriel growled as he rose fluidly to his feet, wiping blood from his nose, "How dare you-"

"You betrayed us!" Bexhet roared.

"What?" the King was taken aback, blinking in confusion.

"Frollo was there! Not just a few lucky soldiers who just happened to be milling around, but FROLLO himself! Tell me something, Adriel, what are the chances that Frollo would just happen to waiting at that very spot at that ungodly hour? He was _waiting for us_! He knew we would be there!"

"Surely, he couldn't have-"

"He was not surprised to see us! Explain that to me, Adriel! If we were not betrayed, then how did he know to expect us? EXPLAIN THAT! We were betrayed, Adriel!"

"Not by me you weren't."

"Someone here knew, someone here told! It was one of yours, Adriel, that makes you responsible!"

Adriel fell silent, knowing he had a point if one of those that lived in the Court did indeed inform Frollo then Adriel as King of his Court could be held responsible. Even consumed by pain, Bexhet's logic did not fail him, he had a fair point: why else would Frollo have just happened to be in that exact location at that exact moment?

"Moses, where are the others?" he asked in a hushed tone, realization dawning on him.

"Rumen and Gimi are locked in the dungeons, well-guarded no doubt because of my escape. It will be pointless to try and rescue them."

"But what of-?"

"Tatoya? Dead, her blood stains Notre Dame's very steps."

"But your son…"

"What? You think Frollo would've let the child live? My… son was born deformed, a bastard like Frollo would've seen him only as a monster and killed him!"

As he stood pondering over his son's fate, gone was any resentment toward the boy's deformities, gone was any revulsion, leaving only a father's mournful love for his first and only child. These last weeks he'd looked upon those deformities as a curse, the gods punishing him for marrying a woman that he had no right to.

When he'd met her, Tatoya had already been promised to another man, her parents having long ago arranged her marriage to someone they deemed worthier than Bexhet. So deeply had they fallen in love that they'd eloped, leaving her disowned by her family, but they hadn't cared since the Trouillefou family welcomed her with open arms. Bexhet had felt blessed until their son was born and he'd set eyes on the deformities, then he'd felt the gods were punishing him for taking something that wasn't his to take. But he'd never felt a bigger fool until this moment when he was certain his son was dead, that precious time wasted wallowing in self-pity, wavering between love and revulsion. Why couldn't he see past those deformities to accept his only child until now when it was too late?

"Papa," Clopin chimed in, "Nonc, he's not dead."

The two adult Gypsies both looked at him, both wearing the same expression that sharpened the resemblance between the two brothers, Adriel impatiently waving a hand for his youngest son to go on.

"The Archdeacon told Frollo," he went on with an exasperated sigh, "that since he'd killed an innocent woman, if he killed the baby too, he'd be damned. So Frollo spared his life and put him in the belltower."

"That's supposed to lessen my pain?" Bexhet snapped.

"Why not?" Adriel urged, "Your son lives yet!"

"As Frollo's pet monster!" he returned, "Dead or raised by Frollo, he's still lost to me forever."

Bexhet returned to his mother's tribe in Orleans with their younger brother Rene, agreeing with Adriel that he needed to lay low and stay out of Paris for awhile, though Clopin always felt it was more to escape his pain than Frollo. So Moses Trouillefou vanished from Paris while Bexhet Vaillant returned to Orleans a heart-broken and embittered widower.


	4. Of Captains and Kings

Clopin flipped through a book, desperate for inspiration, turning one page after another so quickly it hardly seemed like he was even bothering to read any of the words. One of the few advantages to Frollo having kept him as a slave since he was twelve was that in his attempts to convert Clopin and cure him of his heathen ways, the late Minister had taught him to read and write in both French and English. He'd tried teaching him Latin, but it being a dead language and Clopin never having known it before, he could only grasp the basics. He could read it, was able to guess at the pronunciations, but he couldn't translate it, though he made attempts at certain words since they were similar to French. He'd learned French, English, and Romani at a young age, so he spoke those fluently, thus learning to read and write French and English was comparatively simpler than trying to teach Latin. He was also taught more complex math than basic adding and subtracting and most people's standard way of counting on toes and fingers. He was quite possibly the only literate Gypsy in the Court which came in handy for times like these when he needed some fresh stories. He had a collection of books (most of them stolen) that he flipped through when he needed new stories to tell and had difficulty coming up with them on his own. So he lay on a pile of brightly colored, tasseled pillows in a corner of his tent on his belly, flipping through a book when Phoebus pushed aside the tent flap and cautiously entered, clearing his throat to get the attention of the distracted Gypsy King.

"_Oui_, _capitaine_," the King sighed, sitting up and literally tossing the book aside as he crossed his legs, "_Qu'est-ce que c'est_?"

"May I?" Phoebus asked, not sure whether or not he was invited in.

"_Entrez_-_vous_," Clopin replied, rolling his eyes and motioning with his long fingers that the taller man could come in, "What is it, Captain? I'm busy."

"I can see that," the Captain said with a note of sarcasm in his voice, "I was told that if I intend to marry Esmeralda, I have to ask you for a blessing and discuss a dowry."

"It is custom," the wiry Gypsy confirmed, grabbing another book and opening it, "And if you wish to marry the girl, then doing so by our customs is recommended. After all, marrying her means you becoming a part of the tribe."

"So in terms of a dowry," Phoebus stroked his beard, Clopin glancing up at him as an invitation to go on, "Shall we say… mmm, one hundred gold?"

"_Mon dieu_, man! She's a woman, not a horse! Of course, no man in his right mind would take a hundred gold for a horse, but that depends on how good a horse we're talking…"

"You little bastard…"

"_Non_, I must refuse your offer. Considering this is Esmeralda we're discussing, she's worth at least her weight in gold."

"That is her weight in gold."

"No, that's _my _weight in gold. She weighs slightly more."

"How much more?"

"For shame, _monsieur_! A woman never discloses her weight!"

"You have no idea, do you?"

"Nope, she won't say and I'm no good at guessing weight. Come now, Captain, she's the most beautiful woman in Paris, she'll bear you healthy children, not to mention attractive little ones, and she's feisty."

"I'd offer to throw in a goat, but she's already got one."

"Don't tell Djali that."

"Why not?"

"He doesn't know he's a goat."

"Hmm… she does look healthier than you. Of course, people would much rather watch a pretty girl dancing than listen to a creepy, old man tell stories. Small wonder she'd make more than you."

"I'm not old."

"Older than her, and I can't help but notice you're not denying the creepy part or that she earns more than you."

Clopin narrowed his eyes and pulled out his knife, "I have a knife…"

"I have sword."

"And damn good aim."

"You're still older than her."

"Very well, _mon capitaine_, just how old do you think I am?"

"Thirty-five at least and forty-five at most."

"I'm twenty-seven! I'm insulted!"

"It's not my fault you look like you're almost forty!"

"Esmeralda keeps telling me the beard makes me look about ten years older…"

"Yeah, it's the beard and has nothing at all to do with the receding hairline."

"You keep this up and you'll have to elope if you want to marry Esmeralda."

"Then we'll elope."

"That would make her an exile from the tribe, a pariah among our people."

"So one hundred gold and a goat?"

"She has a goat."

"You said he didn't count!"

"No, no, no, what I said was not to tell Djali he's a goat."

"I'll give you her weight in gold. Fair enough?"

"_Bien sur_! If you can find out her weight."

"… _Merde_."

"Good luck with that."

"So… do I at least have your blessing?"

"Oh, now I didn't say that."

"… I hate you."

"I sense some hesitation there."

"I'll be going now. We'll continue this later."

Clopin rolled his eyes as Phoebus left, shaking his head and cursing Gypsy Kings and grumbling about why this scrawny little devil couldn't make anything easy. Clopin put aside his book, folding his fingers together and resting his chin on them; why would the Captain expect this to be easy? Gypsies trust none but their own, Phoebus and Quasimodo were a rare exception to that rule after risking their lives to venture down here and warn them. Accepting a _gajo_ into their tribe was another matter entirely. Generally speaking, any Gypsy girl that ran off to marry a gentile was banished from the tribe and no longer welcome in their community. But with all Phoebus had done for Esmeralda and her tribe, they were willing to make an exception and allow an outsider to become a part of their tribe… if their King allowed it. The blonde soldier didn't understand the honour he was being given or the gravity of what he was asking for and it was clear Esmeralda hadn't told Phoebus the entire truth. Surely, the war hero wasn't naïve enough to believe she was a virgin, but Clopin was certain she had yet to tell her husband-to-be who she'd been with, who she'd been engaged to marry before they'd met. Despite his looks, he was only four years older than Esmeralda, a little foundling raised by his aunt Gaia, he'd known they girl her whole life.

Since she was sixteen, she and Clopin had been on and off until a couple years ago when he offered her the match to his earring, a proposal by Gypsy custom. Knowing Clopin her entire life, she knew he was restless and easily bored, knew in her heart that his was an untamed spirit to belong to no one, to never be tamed by one woman. She'd accepted long ago that he'd be a wayward husband, his definition of fidelity being to always return to the same woman. She felt she could live with that, had accepted Clopin's proposal of marriage, they'd planned to wed after the festivities of the Feast of Fools had died down, but then she'd met Phoebus. As she'd spun with her tambourine, the emerald eyes Gaia had named her for locked with the soldier's cerulean orbs and she'd fallen hard, harder when he'd protected her in the cathedral. She'd always loved Clopin, but the flame of passion that burned for her King paled in comparison to what she felt when she looked at Phoebus. She'd discussed it with Clopin when she returned to the Court after Quasimodo helped her escape the stone walls of Notre Dame, one reason Clopin had been so delighted to hang the good Captain. A reason she didn't suspect since Clopin was slightly paranoid and trusted no one with his life, though he would certainly trust a fellow Rom before he trusted any _gadje_.

"My dear Esmeralda!" he'd gasped, "I didn't know you went for pretty boys! Ah well, I guess brains and personality aren't everything."

Typical Clopin had passed it off as a joke and Esmeralda had gone on her way, shaking her head at the usual insanity of her King, a small smile on her face as she tried not to laugh. Clopin, however, was seething inside and had then gone to spend the night drinking with Quasimodo, of all people, as they both bemoaned their unrequited love for the voluptuous Gypsy girl.

Now, here was Phoebus, expecting it to be simple to steal away a girl Clopin had long since staked a claim to, unaware that he was Esmerlada's first and her scorned fiance. Heaving a sigh that was threatening to turn into a sob as he mulled over all this, he returned to his book, marveling at how easily she'd forgotten about him. How little he must mean to her that she didn't deem it necessary to tell Phoebus she'd been engaged to him. Ah well, at least he'd retrieved a small part of the expected dowry, he smirked as he pulled out the purse he'd nicked from the Captain… speak of the devil, Phoebus's blonde head burst through the tent flap.

"Why, Captain! Back so soon?" Clopin exclaimed with feigned glee, throwing himself onto his stomach, feet in the air behind him, "Oh, did you miss me?"

Phoebus felt like he was going to gag as the Gypsy King batted his eyelashes, then his eyes landed on the purse still Clopin's hands. The very reason he'd returned after discovering it missing, not that he'd thought the man had actually stolen it.

"That's my purse!" he snapped, pointing to it.

"Well, we were discussing a dowry," Clopin answered, idly watching it dangle from his thin fingers, "And dowries are essential in a Gypsy marriage. Don't tell me you don't want to get married! And here I thought you loved Esmeralda…"

"I think me still standing here dealing with you proves I do," Phoebus returned.

"True, but," Clopin paused, "Shut up."

"Look, Clothespin…"

"It's actually Clopin."

"And I actually don't care. About this dowry…"

"I'm not giving the purse back."

"I'm plotting your death as we speak."

"Oh please! I already plotted yours."

"And it was foiled."

"Doesn't mean I'm done plotting it."

"Back to business. I'm well aware Esmeralda's no longer a virgin."

"Couldn't wait till you were married, could you?"

"Not by my doing! I'd figured when I met her that she wasn't. I'm not stupid."

"You're blonde."

"So?"

"Could've fooled me."

"So… I'm blonde, therefore I'm stupid?"

"That does seem to be the pattern. Blonde girls are usually rather dim."

"Except I'm not a girl."

"You're not?"

Clopin took a glance at Phoebus's crotch, earning him a rather nasty glare to which the King responded with a smirk.

"Prove it."

"… Are you not into women or just one of those that will fuck anything with a hole?"

"Such language from your mouth!"

"This coming from a Gypsy."

"What're you trying to say exactly?"

"Oh, nothing. Am I going to get an answer?"

"Oh, you mean that wasn't a rhetorical question?"

"No."

"I love women… but admittedly I swing both ways. Swinging one way gets dull."

"Just not blondes?"

"No, I do prefer intelligent, strong women and honestly blonde hair just doesn't do it for me. I can't see the appeal."

"Oh, so you do speak something other than riddles and sarcasm."

"There is often truth hidden among them."

"We seem to always end up off track…"

"Look, Captain, if it will get rid of you, you have my blessing! Now, take the girl and leave me be!"

The outburst was entirely unexpected, all good humor gone from his face to be replaced by a fierce glare that would've intimidated almost anyone if not for the pain that now showed clear in his black eyes. It was the first time Phoebus had ever seen a hint of emotion in those depths that were usually masked to betray nothing that he was feeling.

"Clopin," he said softly, stepping forward as Clopin tossed the purse aside and angrily began flipping through his book, "Look at me."

But Clopin seemed to make a point of avoiding the Captain's gaze even as the taller man knelt in front of him and reached out to hook a finger under his chin.

"You have what you wanted," the Gypsy snapped, pulling his head away, "Now go."

"Clopin," Phoebus sighed, sitting cross-legged, "We're friends, aren't we?"

"And why would we be? I tried to kill you."

"And I can forgive that and forget it."

"How?"

"I'm a soldier, I was at war for twenty years. You're not the first person to try to kill me, the first one to put a rope around my neck, but not the first one to try and kill me. Frollo did, too, less than a day before you. You… you were just trying to protect your people and your secret. I'm no fool, you're a dangerous criminal, but that's just one side of you."

"Yet you hate Frollo and not me. It makes no sense."

"Frollo gave me a heartless order I couldn't obey, he was ready to murder an innocent family."

"I was ready to murder you and Quasimodo, both of you innocent people."

"You inflict the same justice on them they inflict on you. How many of your people, innocent people, have been killed for something they didn't do? Far as you knew, we were still loyal to Frollo. I don't condone what you tried to do, but I understand. So how about you try burying the hatchet somewhere other than my back? Can we be friends?"

"If there's a point you're trying to get at, spit it out! Otherwise, take your leave and stop wasting my time."

"You loved her, she told me all about it. I didn't bring any of it up because she said you'd taken it well and seemed willing to just let her go."

"Because when you truly love someone or something, that's what you do: let go."

"I kind of figured you might be hurting or jealous or… something, you just didn't want her to see."

"You're a soldier with brains…"

"Thank you."

"I don't like it."

"So… you don't like blonde?"

"Not in terms of women, but you…"

"Let's not go there. I don't swing that way."

"I'll bet I could fix that." Clopin gave a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

"And on that note, I'm out of here."

"That's what I was aiming for," Clopin muttered as Phoebus left.


	5. Blood of the King

Paris at twilight was a glorious thing as the sinking sun painted the streets in blue and violet hues, the sky an array of darkening colors as pinpricks of light dotted the sky when the stars replaced the sun in the heavens. A peace settled over the streets as quiet fell over them, shopkeepers and peasants rushing home to sit down to dinner and bed down for the night, while some of the soldiers and vagabonds sat down to a few drinks in a tavern. That's where this twilight, like so many others, found the leader of the city's resident Gypsy tribe as he sat at the bar of his favorite tavern with a tankard of ale in front of him. He was in no rush to get home to his family after such a hard day that had offered too few coins to feed himself, his wife, and their nine children, a few wisps of black hair hanging in his eyes. Seven years ago, he'd finally settled down and married the woman he'd been in love with and who'd given birth to his children, the three youngest, two sons and a daughter, being born after they'd married. His wife was a beautiful woman with luxurious raven hair, light brown skin, and eyes that rivaled the clarity of the blue sky named Samira or Sami as he called her for short in his playful moods. Her Gypsy mother had died of illness when Samira was too young to remember her, her father a simple farmer with endless patience and a kind heart. She'd grown up on her father's farm with little interaction from her mother's people, content with her life as a simple farm girl for the ten years of her life until she laid eyes on the young Gypsy prince. She'd come across him running along the dirt road that passed her father's farm, fleeing Gypsy hunters, when he'd tripped.

Worn out and panicked, Samira's father had helped hide him until the danger passed and the young boy began his trek back to his tribe, promising to repay them for their kindness. Samira and her father made frequent trips to Paris to sell the yields of their crops during the warmer months of summer and into autumn, seldom having cause to venture into the city other than that. Their modest farm lay on the outskirts of the city, a few hours journey by horseback, so Samira grew up without the exposure of the dangers of the city and the seedier individuals that inhabited the streets. After that initial meeting, Samira began seeing Clopin frequently during her few excursions into the city and made it a point to keep aside something just for him once she realized he lived in Paris. Since they lived outside the city, close enough for an excuse for a quiet jaunt to escape the troubles of city-life, he took to venturing their way when he had an opportunity. Six years, he made sure to ride out to their modest farm to visit the lovely girl with her blue eyes, saw her grow from a darling little child to a most becoming young woman. At sixteen, she was an appropriate age for him to pursue romantically, pleased to find that she was as taken with him as he was with her. He was exotic to her with his tanned skin, shining black hair, and gleaming black eyes, he represented a world of wonder and adventure to her, he was the opposite of the boys who lived on neighboring farms. Her father, however, did not approve of her falling for a Gypsy.

He had nothing against them, he was tolerant and accepting, even offering a kind of father figure to Clopin whose own father rarely had time to bother with him unless he'd been getting into mischief. Having loved a Gypsy woman, he knew the dangers their lives as nomads and outcasts were fraught with, he didn't want to see his daughter lost within that world, to lose her simply because of her own half-Gypsy heritage. She was growing into a radiant beauty with her almond eyes and oval face, she was beautiful enough to fetch a much more suitable husband and a better life for herself. He did what he could to discourage the budding romance between his daughter and the swarthy young Gypsy he'd once helped hide, but he didn't have the heart to deny Samira what her heart clearly wanted. She was level-headed and bright, a happily obedient daughter most of the time, but there was no denying her quiet strength of will or her right to decide who it was she loved. However, when she found herself carrying Clopin's child, the time came for him to put his foot down somewhere, knowing Samira had chosen who she'd given her heart to. All he asked was that so long as he lived, she stay with him and let him help her and take care of her and her little ones, let her child grow up safe and distant from the world of its father. Samira and her father had always been close, she didn't want to hurt him or leave any bitter feelings between them, she was a peacekeeper, so she agreed.

Clopin continued his frequent trips to them and though he wasn't the farmer's first choice for his daughter, he proved to be a responsible and attentive father, even if he wasn't exactly a responsible member of society. So things went for ten years, the farmer finding himself blessed with another grandchild every couple years until he had five of them underfoot. Good Christian though he was, he couldn't help but view the little ones as the Lord's blessing for, sinful though it was for them to have been born out of wedlock, surely He had His reasons. He also couldn't help chuckling at the fact that, as of yet, Clopin had yet to be blessed with a single son, all he'd had were daughters, but they were the Gypsy's little darlings and it seemed to matter little to him. As previously mentioned, Clopin was not who the farmer would have chosen for his daughter, but he couldn't chosen a better father for his grandchildren. Clopin made sure he was there for each birth, made sure his daughters knew their father's face and voice, and helped his family with whatever help he could give while he was with them. A decade past that way, Clopin able to keep his life in Paris a secret from his family, not wanting them exposed to the dangers he lived with everyday, and he would have been content to have things stay that way. Would have been, being the key phrase had life not reminded them of one thing: no one lives forever. Samira woke one morning to find her father had collapsed, his heart failing him, her quiet strength never more evident than in the days that followed as she remained strong for her children and tended to her father's last rites.

While Clopin could read even though he was a Gypsy, Samira being the daughter of a farmer could not, so getting word to him wherever he was proved a bit difficult. She stood at the front of the farmhouse, pondering over what to do, when she heard the faint whinny of a horse and glanced in the direction it'd come from. There he was, on his roan stallion with its luxurious black mane and tail, cantering towards her and swinging off the horse to pull her into his arms before the beast had even come to a full stop.

"What happened, _ma chere_?" he asked, cupping her face in his hands.

"Papa…" she mumbled, "He's gone."

"He has been buried?"

"Not yet."

Immediately, Clopin went off to what purpose only he knew as he did not tell Samira what he was going to do, though she found out when she saw that the few mirrors her father possessed had been covered and all vessels containing water had been emptied. The next two days during which a small ceremony was held and her father was buried, Clopin did not shave, wash, or comb his hair nor did he prepare food or accept any that Samira made. The day he was laid to rest, Clopin took some coins from his own pocket and slipped them in with the body, murmuring something in what Samira assumed was Romani, and thanking the deceased for what he had done for and given to him.

"Clopin," she said, quietly approaching him as he sat before his fire at the back of the property, "Why don't you come in the house?"

"Did he die in the house?" he asked.

"Yes, he was in the kitchen when…" she trailed off, taking a deep breath.

"Then I prefer it out here," he answered.

"Clopin, it's a bit chilly out tonight, you'll freeze. Come in."

"I can't, it's _marhime_."

"What?"

"He died in there! It's unclean, impure, _marhime_. For that reason, by tradition a dying person is brought outside of their abode so their home is not contaminated."

"Clopin, he was not ill, it was his heart."

"There was still death in that house, I'll be fine out here. I have enough on my plate without adding an angry spirit, _merci beaucoup_."

"Clopin… what are we going to do?"

"You cannot raise a family and run a farm yourself."

"Good, we're on the same page. Will you stay with us?"

"Samira, I can't do that. I have other obligations."

"More important than your family?"

"Of course not, but I cannot get up and walk away from them to play farmer. _Cherie_, I'm a Gypsy, this is no life for me, you know this."

"So you would leave me here to raise your daughters and try to run this farm myself?"

"No and I'm hurt that you would think so little of me after all this time! I'm not here to abandon you! Come with me, _mon amour_, to Paris."

"We stayed here because it is safer here."

"And now there is little other choice unless you were to find an honest man out here to marry you."

"And you think I could not?"

"You have five little girls by a Gypsy," she shot him a death glare, "BUT you are easily the most beautiful woman here. I've no doubt, in fact I've every fear that you could very well find someone else. I cannot live out here, I am asking you to come back to Paris with me."

So, without much more persuasion, Samira agreed to return to Paris with Clopin and their children on one condition: he marry her in a church, to which he very reluctantly agreed. The ceremony was small and simple, they exchanged simple gold bands and Samira put the match to her mother's earring in her right ear and it didn't take long for the cause of Clopin's reluctance to become clear.

Out on the farm, where it had only ever been the two of them and he'd had eyes only for her, she'd never seen any other side of him before now when she was with him in Paris. He was naturally charming and flirtatious and, as it turns out, Clopin was very popular with women, a bit too popular apparently and it pained Samira to admit that her father had been right. He'd warned her about boys and men like Clopin, that their charm and warm personalities made them irresistible to women, and men like him seldom ever resisted that allure. Luckily, Clopin was currently between paramours, so there was no other woman vying for his attentions when he returned with Samira, though there were plenty trying to flirt with him and even more gushing over his little girls. For the next seven years, Samira dealt with Clopin's dalliances with grace and dignity, accepting the fact that he was restless and a wayward husband just as her father had warned her me might be. She didn't like it, but she accepted it, and it didn't happen so often that he was almost never around for her or the children, as a matter of fact, it happened once in a blue moon. Her King always came back to her and there were no illegitimate children she needed to worry about with the exception of a son from a relationship he'd had before he had children with Samira. Clopin snapped back to the present moment, taking a swig from the tankard in front of him, knowing that there wasn't much food to put on the table tonight. Being a husband and father was turning out not to be his cup of tea, but he loved Samira too much to walk away, loved her enough to have been trying for the last couple of years to stop from wandering.

For a notorious player like him, practicing fidelity was turning out to be much easier said than done which wasn't helping him on days like these when he had hungry children to get home to and little to give them. Perhaps Phoebus would be willing to lend a hand, he usually was even though he had his own bunch of rugrats to look after, but Clopin had to talk to him before he got home to Samira. So, after paying for his drink, he strolled down the dark streets, mulling all this over in his head, when suddenly he was grabbed from behind and slammed into a wall behind him. His hand immediately went for his knife at his side, but what was happening happened so fast he had no chance to use it before he felt two sharp pinpricks sink into his neck. His instinct to survive kicking into overdrive, he drove his dagger deep into his attacker's side, teeth clenching harder against his neck before releasing him. The struggle seemed to last forever but in reality was over in a matter of seconds as his assailant reached for him again, grabbing the wrist that wielded that knife in an iron grip. As the monster lunged for his neck again, Clopin bit hard and deep into the arm that held the knife at bay, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth. His attacker cursed as he pushed his victim away, Clopin swallowing the blood in his mouth as the thing that bit him vanished into the night, not wanting to bother with a meal that fought back so hard. Wiping the blood from his mouth, Clopin thanked whatever deity he could think of that whatever that was had fled and this ordeal was over, sheathed his knife as he pressed a hand to his neck.

Weak and dizzy from blood loss, he was quite sure the bastard had pierced his jugular considering how quickly he was losing blood, Clopin made his way down an alley and into a hidden tunnel that would lead him back to the old catacombs. His vision was getting blurry and he was beginning to see double when it hit him, the most excruciating pain he'd ever felt in his life. It began in his abdomen and coursed through his body, the bite wound in his neck burning, wave after wave of pain so debilitating he was knocked to his knees, arms wrapped over his abdomen. The pain was crippling, he couldn't move, couldn't stop the scream that ripped from his throat or any scream that he let out after that. How long it lasted he had no idea, no inkling of how much time passed, how long he writhed in sheer agony on the cold, damp ground while his screams reverberated back to him. All he knew was that at some point, he must have past out because his eyes fluttered open as he came around, the pain long since subsided, and somehow everything around him seemed clearer. Though it was pitch-black and he had no torch, somehow he could see everything around him, hear clear as day the patter of the rats scurrying around him, smell them as though they were sitting on his face. Not that he cared enough to sit and ponder over it, he hadn't returned home in God only knew how long and he had a family and a tribe to take care of, people that were surely worried about him. Never mind the raw thirst that left his throat painfully dry and the gnawing hunger of his empty stomach.

The next five days passed, the first two like any other, but things progressively got worse as each day went by, no matter how much he ate, he was always hungry, no matter how much he drank his thirst never sated. Clopin became withdrawn and testy, his tanned flesh becoming steadily paler each day and people who passed him swore his eyes were getting a steadily redder tint in them before shaking it off as imagination. He had no idea what was wrong with him, a fact that scared him, and as each day passed, he became more aware of the scents of the people around him. Each time someone walked into his tent to speak with him privately, he was hard-pressed to control some strange, new urge to bounce on them. He swore he could hear the pounding of their hearts, the rush of the blood through their veins, wondered at this suddenly feral drive to kill anyone foolish enough to be alone with him. The more this happened, the more time he spent away from the Court, the more afraid of himself he became, afraid that at some point, he would lose control. Dark, sinister clouds swirled in the skies, most of the Gypsies on the streets rushing back to the Court before the storm that threatened broke loose, except Clopin who stood on a bridge, the wind blowing throw his hair, his cloak billowing out behind him. Far as anyone knew, he was there making sure everyone got home safely or at least found shelter because the storm brewing promised to be something fierce, the reality was he was putting more distance between himself and them. As the rain began to fall, he strode through the streets, his feet moving mechanically without any thought of where he was going or what he was doing.

The rain was coming down in sheets, Clopin was quite thoroughly soaked to the skin, his flesh ashen, his eyes a vibrant blood red, the pupils discernible from the normally-black iris. He was barely even aware of the soldier stepping out behind him until he heard an unfriendly chuckle behind him, the Gypsy King stopping in his tracks.

"Shouldn't you be running home, Gypsy?" the soldier asked mockingly

Clopin said nothing as he turned to face him, the guard's eyes widening with his grin as he recognized the face of the Gypsy King, a wanted man in this city if only for the key he was to his people's secrets.

"Well, well, didn't recognize you, your highness," the man sneered.

"Normally, I'd love to stand around and play," Clopin growled, "but I'm not in the mood. So why don't you just run along and spare me the trouble of giving you some exercise?"

"I've got a better idea," the guard returned, drawing his sword, "Why don't you just come along with me? I'll even make sure you get somewhere nice and dry."

Faster then the soldier could blink, Clopin's knife was out, expertly thrown with deadly aim, nicking his cheek as it whizzed past him to embed itself in the wall behind him. Stunned, the guard reached up to the cut, touching his fingers to it and pulling his hand away to find blood smeared on his fingertips, his nasty smirk turning down into a cruel frown.

"You little heathen," he snarled, "You made me bleed! You'll pay for that!"

A feral growl emanated from Clopin's throat as the smell of the guard's fresh, warm blood reached his nostrils, his canines seeming to increase in length and sharpness. He ran his tongue along them, cutting it on the razor-sharp tips, the taste of blood flooding his mouth and from there, his reason was lost. He leapt upon the soldier before the man could react, arm against his throat, as he lunged for the man's neck, fangs cutting easily through the flesh to pierce the vein beneath. The blood flowed into his mouth thick and fast, Clopin swallowing surge after surge, the burning thirst and gnawing hunger finally quieting as he drank deeply, the soldier growing still as his heart slowed.

Clopin pulled away, letting the body fall, breathing in relief that his thirst had finally been sated, that he was finally again himself, though he couldn't seem to recall what it was that brought him such sweet relief.

"Clopin…?" a voice he would've recognized in his sleep gasped from behind him.

He turned to see Samira behind him, hood up to protect her from the rain though what good it did was questionable seeing as the cloak was soaked, his blue hat clenched tightly in her hands. Those sky blue eyes were wide with shock, taking in the skin that was again its properly tanned tone, his eyes again black where they'd been crimson the last few days, relief mingling with the horrified realization of what he'd become. He seemed slightly confused, black hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping off the tip of his pointed nose as it ran down his brow and cheeks. He glanced down at the dead guard, eyes widening when he saw the puncture marks in his neck, understanding dawning as he flashed back to the night he'd been attacked.

"_Mullo_," he muttered, fingers brushing the fading scars on his own neck, "No… Samira…"

"It's all right, Clopin," she replied, taking a deep breath, "Now you know what was wrong with you, what you… have become. Now… you move forward. Your secret is safe with me."

"Samira, I," Clopin hesitated, back away from what he'd done, "How- why?"

"I love you, Clopin, I always will. Nothing, not even this will change that."

"I'm a monster…"

"Only if you allow yourself to become one. I know you can control this."

"What will we do? What now?"

"We will figure it out. Let's just get you home."

Without another word, he stepped to her, taking his hat from when she held it out to him, taking some comfort in her words and resolving to determine what steps he had to take from here.


	6. Of Nature and Blood

Clopin approached the deep violet tent that stood in one of the quieter areas of the Court, an area where most of the tribes mystics and prophets dwelled since their work required peace and quiet. It was an area that also acted as the infirmary, though it was rare since they seldom had anymore than one or two injured badly enough to be kept quarantined in this area. Often, those who were on their deathbed or seriously ill were brought here to be cared for and to limit the risk of their illness spreading to someone else that could easily start an epidemic. Clopin needed advice from only one particular mystic, one that came and went as he pleased and often without a moment's notice, a man who came and went when and where he was needed. He'd always been around, Clopin had known him his whole life though the mystic never seemed to age a day in his life though the Gypsy King was now forty years of age. One learned never to question such things when it came to mystics, they worked in mysterious ways that only they had the capacity to understand. He stopped before the mystic's abode, gazing at the deep purple material the large tent was composed of, before taking a deep breath and pushing aside the flap and peering inside.

"Hail, Gypsy King," the deep baritone greeted from the softly lit interior.

"You are here," Clopin said, approaching the man where he crouched in a corner.

The tent was always dimly lit, a soft green glow falling over the place, the ground covered by a green rug that perfectly mimicked the look and feel of grass. There was a purely natural feel to the place as though one had just stepped into a hidden glade of a forest, there were various plants scattered about, many of them herbs necessary for the mystics work.

The mystic stood and turned as Clopin came to a stop before him and falling to one knee, one arm draped across his raised leg while the knuckles of the other rested on the ground. This was the only man Clopin Trouillefou ever bowed to, revered enough for such a flagrant display of the deepest respect, the man's very presence commanded it. He was a tall individual, taller even than the blonde Captain Phoebus who practically towered over most of the Court's denizens, broad and muscular, power rippling through him. His black hair fell past his shoulders in layers that gave him a wild, though well-groomed, look enhanced by the greenish tint Clopin swore highlighted each strand. The light blue of the lightning bolts tattooed over each eye, down both arms and either side of his bare chest and back stood out in stark contrast to his light brown flesh. The golden tint to his amber eyes almost seemed to glow in the dim light, thick brows raised in a welcoming expression with the upturned corners of his mouth. The tattoos of his chest were barely visible beneath the thick beard that hung to his waist, the tips of his mustache adorned by a circle sitting in an upturned crescent moon. The mystic wore nothing more than a simple cloak around his shoulders that may have been fashioned from a deer pelt and a kilt made of some sort of thick fur with what looked like large saber teeth adorning the hem. On his hands, he wore fingerless gloved, his wrists and forearms covered by bracers, biceps adorned by green and gold armbands from which hung two large feathers. The matching belt at his waist was decorated with a delicate design of leaves, a large pouch hanging from it, his shins covered by intricately crafted leg guards adorned by an upside-down crescent above a circle.

Gypsies being nomads were practically children of nature, preferring to camp in the woods to dwelling in a large city like Paris. They had strong connections to nature and the natural world around, had a superior understanding of herbs and their medicinal uses, but none seemed so connected to the living world than the mystic before him. His powers were far beyond anyone's understanding, seeming able to not only coax plants to grow but to hear them, everything about him radiating power. In those respects, this great mystic who called himself a druid was aptly named: Malfurion Stormrage, called Mal or Furion for short by close friends. As previously mentioned, Clopin had known him his entire life and had become close to him, often turning to him for the advice and guidance he didn't get from his father Adriel. Thus, Malfurion had become a sort of surrogate father to him for many years now, had once even told Clopin he would be honored if the boy looked to him as such.

"It is good to see you again, Clopin," Malfurion remarked, motioning for him to rise, "Though you are not looking yourself. Are you well?"

"It's been awhile, Mal," Clopin replied, dodging the question and leaning against the simple bed behind him, "I was beginning to think your time had finally come."

"I have several years in me yet," the mystic chuckled.

"That is a relief," the King mumbled.

"I do wish you would let me teach you my ways, you have great potential."

Clopin rolled his eyes; they'd had this conversation before, "And how would you know?"

"I can feel it, the world around me tells me such things. Do you never hear the whisper of the wind, calling to you?"

"Should I?"

Clopin crossed his arms impatiently; how was he to know if the wind was whispering to him?

Any time he caught any faint whispers, Clopin simply attributed it to the sixth sense he possessed that no one knew about and that he usually kept blocked. He didn't much care to feel or hear the disembodied spirits around him, he'd had enough experiences with the supernatural when he was a child, they used to give him nightmares. So he blocked it all out so he couldn't see, hear, or sense the things that no one else saw, though there were times when the activity was too strong for him to block. He'd never admit it, but the paranormal scared him, mostly due to some of the more frightening experiences he'd had. Malfurion took a close look at the Gypsy King, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the drawn, pale look of one who was not sleeping.

"How long since you last slept?" he asked, turning back to the plants he'd been tending to and patting the ground beside him.

"Five days," Clopin answered, taking the proffered seat.

"Mm," the mystic let out a displeased hum, "That does not bode well. A week without rest may prove fatal, I have seen so myself before. Too long without sleep and much more than your mental well-being is at risk, indeed your very life is at stake."

"You're telling me a week without sleep can kill you?"

"Indeed, I've seen it. Why are you not sleeping, dear King?"

"That's what I wished to talk to you about. Something's happened."

"You're no longer human or at least no longer mortal."

"Dare I ask…?"

"I can sense a change in you, your canines are also more noticeable, indeed more prominent. Slightly longer and sharper."

"Have you any idea what I've become?"

"Have you?"

"_Mullo_," Clopin replied, using the Romani term for 'vampire.'

"Where I am from, such beings are known as the San'layn. Drinker of blood, vampire."

"I was attacked and bitten about two weeks ago. I've been hoping for your swift return, Stormrage. I find myself in dire need of your guidance."

"Did your sire explain nothing to you?"

"My sire?"

"The one that made you."

"Ah, I expect that this was unintentional. I fought against him when he bit me, even when he came at me a second time. After that, he just took off into the night."

"You are most likely correct in that assumption. Seldom do victims fight back like that, he probably wanted an easier meal than you."

"So, I was lost the moment he bit me?"

"No, there must be an exchange of blood in order for the victim to become one of the undead. If he did not give it to you, how did you get it?"

"I bit him in the struggle, hard enough to draw blood, and I swallowed it when he pushed me away."

"As usual, Clopin, you are unique, nothing done to you or by you is ever normal, even this."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me what happened after you were bitten."

"I fled into one of the other tunnels," Clopin recalled, eyes glazing over as he thought back with vivid detail to that night, "I was weak from losing so much blood, but this pain came over me. It was horrible, I thought the pain itself would kill me. It swept through every part of my body, everything hurt, the worst pain I've every felt in my life. It was so excruciating, I was on the ground writhing, I think I passed out at some point. When I woke, the pain was gone, I was so thirsty and so hungry, but nothing I ate or drank did anything to relieve it. Five days went like that, I was filled with some terrible urge to attack anyone who spoke with me alone, each day that urge got stronger. I was losing control, losing myself. A guard began pestering me, I threw my knife, it cut his cheek and I smelled the blood, I lost control and attacked him. I bit him as I'd been bitten, drank his blood until his heart was about to stop. Only then were the hunger and the horrible, burning thirst gone, only then did I come back to myself."

"The pain you endured," Malfurion sighed, his fears confirmed, "That was the beginning of the end, your mortal body dying and your soul becoming forever bound to immortal flesh. That was your body adjusting to a new existence, but you have not been fully transformed. Your flesh should have paled almost to white, should be cold to the touch, but," he reached out a hand to cup Clopin's face, " it is not. Your skin is the same tanned tone it's always been, the warmth of your color echoed in the feel of it."

"Then what has become of me?"

"There is no telling what effects the blood you took will have on you, but my thought is that you are only semi-vampiric, you thirst for blood, need it to survive, but you still have some need for food."

"Am I a monster, Malfurion?"

"Not so long as you do not allow yourself to become one. Vampires become inhuman monsters because they allow themselves to. They have the potential to retain their humanity, but many choose not to, they choose to let go of what made them human. You have held on to who you are, you have not allowed yourself to fall to such depths of depravity. Your secret can be kept from your people."

"But I still must kill to survive."

"Not necessarily. So long as you feed often enough, you will not need as much blood as a full-fledged vampire, but you will need to feed more often to keep from losing your mind to bloodlust. Clearly, five days is the longest you can go before going mad with thirst becomes a very real possibility. Find a willing victim to provide you with that blood every day or two and you'll have no need to kill for it. Does anyone else know?"

"Samira does, she saw the guard."

"Perhaps she-"

"No! I will not ask that of her, I will not take her blood."

"Then, you have some soul-searching to do. Determine who else you are comfortable enough with to entrust this secret to, from whom you would not mind taking blood."

Easier said than done for there were precious few Clopin trusted with his life and if he trusted them with his life, then he could trust them with this secret. He was not a man who trusted easily, not even his own people though he was much more willing to trust them than any _gadje_. He preferred not to take blood from a woman and only one person came to mind, one who he deemed trustworthy enough, one who was strong enough to make such a regular sacrifice. That one person was a gentile who'd risked his life and his career for Clopin's people on more than one occasion: Phoebus de Chateaupers.

The two were good, albeit unlikely, friends and Phoebus had on several occasions earned Clopin's trust despite being a soldier and a _gajo_, so the Gypsy King never questioned his wisdom in trusting the Captain with his life. The two had even become lovers in the months that followed Frollo's demise, though that only lasted a year or two. In that time, Clopin had been raped by a guard when he'd been thrown in a dungeon, leaving the Gypsy King emotionally scarred and suffering for a few weeks. In time, he'd healed, but the scars the assault left on his psyche never faded, so there were things Phoebus couldn't do without Clopin having flashbacks. The lively Gypsy had found himself becoming too emotionally invested in the blonde captain for his liking considering Phoebus was very serious about Esmeralda. It also didn't help when Phoebus told Clopin that unlike the King of the Gypsies, he really wasn't bisexual, he just had the occasional desire for male companionship. Aside from all that, Phoebus had married Esmeralda and had Zephyr with her as well as a few other rugrats after that. So, between his duties as Captain of the Guard and his role as husband and father, Phoebus didn't have much time for the Gypsy King. Despite all that, they were still friends and Phoebus was still one of Clopin's closest and best, so once he was done talking with Malfurion, he went in search of his gentile friend.

It being the weekend, Phoebus luckily wasn't on duty and, even better, was lazing about in the tent he shared with Esmeralda and their little ones while she went to market with the children in tow.

"Dweebus!" Clopin shouted cheerfully, correctly assuming he was hung over after a Friday night spent out drinking.

"DAMMIT!" came the responding groan after the Captain rather unceremoniously rolling out of bed, "Clopin! Could you be slightly less cheerful just this once?"

"Aw, _pouvre_ Doofus," Clopin cooed, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"What have I told you about calling me things like Dweebus and Doofus?" the Captain asked, placing a cool cloth to his head as he sat on some pillows facing Clopin.

"And Feeble, don't forget Feeble."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, what have I told you?"

"Not to?"

"Then why do you?"

"Because it's fun and because I can, but mostly because I know it annoys you."

"Fair enough, Clothespin."

"Call me Clothespin and die."

"Clothespin."

"I will murder you…"

"Clothespin."

"VICIOUSLY."

Phoebus pointedly quirked a brow.

"Fine, you've made your point," Clopin conceded and immediately sobered, "Phoebus, I need to talk to you."

"I assumed as much since you never just stroll in unless you do."

"Nothing I say in this tent, leaves this tent. Is this understood?"

". . . Clopin, what's going on?"

"I'm swearing you to secrecy."

"I got that part. About what?"

"Swear you tell no one, not even Esmeralda!"

"Not even Esmeralda? I tell her everything."

"I really don't care, you are not to breathe a single word of this to her."

"You have my word."

"Don't make me regret this."

"Have I ever?"

"Phoebus, I need you."

"Oh, is that all? Esmeralda knew all about that."

"Not like that, dumbass!"

"Then what are you talking about?"

"Phoebus… I'm a _mullo_."

"Sorry, my Romani's rusty. What the hell is a mullo?"

"You gentiles call them vampires."

"Clopin, two things. Number one, I really hate it when you call me a gentile. Number two: Worst. Joke. Ever."

"I'm not joking."

"There's no such thing as vampires. _Mon dieu_, you Gypsies are so bloody superstitious."

"Phoebus, pretend for a moment that they are. I was bitten by one about two weeks ago, I am not human anymore. I need you to do something for me."

"Very well, Clopin, vampires are real and now you're one of them?"

"_Oui_."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Let me drink your blood."

"…What?"

"Just once every couple of days, that's all I ask."

"What do you mean drink my blood?"

Clopin motioned for Phoebus to lean closer which he did, a decision he immediately regretted when Clopin's arms wrapped around his neck and he felt a sharp stab to his throat. He couldn't move as the strangest sensation swept through him while Clopin drank from the wound his teeth had made in his neck, an odd mixture of pleasure and pain. Truth be told, Phoebus really didn't like and came to the conclusion that Clopin had either been telling the truth or that he was much more of a psychotic, sadistic little bastard than he realized. After about a fifteen minutes, Clopin pulled away and returned to where he'd been sitting, Phoebus letting out a deep breath to calm the rapid pounding of his heart and his suddenly light head.

"You weren't kidding," he said.

"My apologies, Captain, but thank you," Clopin answered.

"Don't mention it," Phoebus replied, "Really."

"Then I suppose I'll find another solution."

"No, Clopin, I promised I'd do this and I will. It just takes some getting used to."

"I appreciate that, Phoebus."

"That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Which makes your sacrifice more… noble, I suppose. I certainly appreciate more knowing you're doing it even thought you don't like it."

"You're welcome."

Clopin turned to take his leave, intent on returning to Malfurion to apprise him of what had just happened, making his way once more to the mystics' corner of the Court. Again he merely walked in, Malfurion still tending to his plants, but again he greeted the Gypsy King without even turning though Clopin moved silently to him.

"I have found a solution to my predicament," Clopin said as Malfurion faced him.

"That is a relief to hear," the mystic replied, smiling at him, "I was concerned over the matter."

"Phoebus has kindly agreed to be my regular victim," he informed him.

"Yet, you seem distressed," the taller man took note.

"He did say he didn't have to like it."

"But he is doing it anyway. He's willing to help you despite his discomfort."

"I still feel badly about it."

"You shouldn't, admire your friend's willingness to help you in your most dire time of need no matter his own feelings."

When Clopin said nothing, Malfurion wrapped his arms around to comfort his young friend and surrogate son. Clopin always felt odd when the mystic saw hit to embrace him, he was so much larger that Clopin scrawny form seemed practically lost within his arms, but it was comforting to be so enveloped.

"_An'da_," he muttered a word for 'father' that Malfurion had taught him, a term he seldom used, though what language it was, Clopin had no idea

Indeed, there was no reason for Clopin to feel ill at ease for asking Phoebus for this favor, though he didn't like the sensation, Phoebus was glad to help. He could see Clopin's distress and that his old friend was in dire need, so it didn't matter how he felt about it, he wanted to help in whatever way he could. He did it because Clopin needed help and that was all that mattered to him, he was entitled to his own feelings, but Clopin had no cause to feel guilty. Esmeralda walked in, Djali trotting in behind her, as chipper as ever even though surely by now that goat was getting old.

"Where're the kids?" Phoebus asked.

Esmeralda smirked, glancing at Djali going to his bucket of oats and digging in.

"That's not a kid anymore," he smiled back.

"They went off to play," she replied, then caught site of the puncture marks on the side of his neck, "Phoebus, what happened to you neck?"

"Huh? Oh," he got out, hand flying up to cover them, "Clopin bit me."

"I'm not going to ask," she said, rolling her eyes and walking away.


End file.
